


waiting for your star

by spirallings



Series: let's go lesbians [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fukuroudani, Gen, M/M, Married Life, Mentioned Iwaizumi Hajime, Post-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirallings/pseuds/spirallings
Summary: Upon retiring from the life of a pro volleyball player, Bokuto Koutarou knows that he's going to wind up coaching somewhere since he can't quite ever let go of his love for the sport. When he sees the Fukurodani Academy Girl's Volleyball Club play at the Tokyo Qualifiers, it's an easy choice. Together with his husband, Keiji, he's ready for a whole new venture.AKA The One Where Bokuto And Akaashi Adopt A Bunch Of Owlets.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: let's go lesbians [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797676
Comments: 16
Kudos: 125





	waiting for your star

**Author's Note:**

> goddammit gray
> 
> this was born out of a silly 'haha what if' au where i thought about bokuto coaching after he's retired, contemplated whether he'd teach the boys team, decided that was silly and that he could coach the girls instead (bc the girls get no focus in the series, which is a shame), and then, with a friend, it exploded into more than two dozen different OCs that i am attached to. this is the result.
> 
> oops

To make it to Spring High was no small feat and in the Tokyo prefecture with its hundreds of teams fighting to make it to the finals, to be able to say that your team made it past the qualifying rounds was a herculean task in of itself. Perhaps it seemed like such a small, minor thing to be impressed by after going pro, but Koutarou still remembered how _hard_ he and his team fought to go to Nationals his final year. When he watched aspiring players (and those who weren’t aspiring to be pro like he eventually did but put in that grueling hard work nonetheless), he could remember the feeling of his feet on the court floor, his teammates thrumming with energy and anxious excitement around him, and Keiji’s sharp eyes watching him, ready to toss him the perfect arch for him to slam down.

No matter how many professional matches he played, won and lost, _nothing_ could compare to being on that National stage with Keiji.

It would never feel the same, not even nearly fifteen years later after playing on an international stage (for which Keiji was always there for, no matter what; even if he couldn’t be there physically for some matches, he was always watching some kind of livestream, always keeping in touch, always making sure Koutarou knew he was _there_ ), so when Bokuto Koutarou retired from his professional volleyball career at age thirty-six with no regrets and happily married to the love his life, he came back to that stage as a member of the audience. And, as always, Keiji settled down next to him, their fingers intertwining easily and elbows pressing against each other, and Koutarou couldn’t keep the grin off of his face as he squeezed his husband’s hand.

It only grew wider when Keiji offered him one of his own, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. 

Being near the stage where they’d _almost_ won should’ve been bittersweet, and to a degree, it was—but Koutarou had had a long time to grow and ruminate on his wins, his losses, and his almosts. Looking back, he could only remember how he and his old high school team played together like a well-oiled machine and Keiji’s sharp green eyes, intense and calculating and yet so bright when they looked at him—he could only look back with utter fondness. Koutarou couldn’t live with regrets and so he didn’t.

Barely four months of retirement settled in before high schools and universities all around Japan were scouting Bokuto Koutarou to coach their home teams. So many flooded in that it was overwhelming when Koutarou was simply trying to spend as much time as he could at home with Keiji that Keiji wound up taking over answering calls with the staple _Allow Bokuto-san time to enjoy his retirement and_ ** _then_** _he’ll make a decision_ with such stern finality that they were cowed into slowing down their requests.

“Keijiii, you’re still so **_cool_**!” He’d wailed, beaming at the other man. It earned him a fond roll of the eyes and thump of his forearm from his husband, who’d been comfortably curled up in his lap as they watched a foreign film together before they were rudely interrupted by yet _another_ phone call.

It wasn’t quite yet to the National stage, but when Konoha told him that his niece was considering going to Fukurodani Academy for high school and wanted to join the volleyball team during a monthly get-together, Koutarou was incensed to watch the Tokyo Qualifiers. Naturally, Keiji was going to come with him. He didn’t play the sport anymore in a serious way, but Keiji still set for him whenever Koutarou was feeling restless, when the old guard got together, or when Hajime was visiting, and vice versa. Keiji still cared about the sport, and both of them were incredibly fond of their alma mater’s team. It was an easy decision.

Koutarou was only a _little_ put out that Keiji snatched the bottles and jars of styling gel away from him before he could put it up in its usual style. 

“Keijiiii, it’s my **_thing_**!”

Keiji huffed as he put a beanie over Koutarou’s head just as they were about to head out the door. Despite his whining, Koutarou didn’t resist. “Unless you’d like to be swarmed by press and our school administration, we’re _trying_ to stay inconspicuous.”

Swiftly brushing a stray lock of silver hair behind Koutarou’s air, fingers as slender and clever as always, Keiji smiled, a hint of cheekiness to it.

“Besides, you know I like your hair better this way.”

Koutarou stopped pretending to resist after that.

The boys played first: Koutarou found himself imagining himself and his old team on the court, though they played nothing like Koutarou’s team, with each receive, each toss, and spike. The boys were still as strong as ever even more than a decade and a half since his high school days and they played hard and well. Coach Yamiji was a tank of a man and still coaching the boys team and it _showed_. They swept the floor and made it as the runner up for the Qualifiers.

Koutarou clapped hard enough that his palms were a raw red afterwards. 

The girls played second.

It had occurred to Koutarou as he watched them walk onto the court in that familiar white, black and gold uniform (so similar to the boys’ and yet not) that he hadn’t heard much about the girls’ team while he was in high school. Fukurodani was a powerhouse school, which extended to several of the sports, but he’d been so caught up in how fast-paced volleyball was for him that the team barely made contact with the girls, who ran on a separate schedule from the boys in terms of when they could use the gym, when their practices were and which gym they used at all. Koutarou vaguely remembered having talked to the captain of the girls team a couple of times during his final year as captain to captain, probably about their plans to pursue Nationals, but he didn’t remember much about them in any fine detail.

He was quickly realizing how much of a mistake that was as he watched the girls play.

The girls team was smaller in number of members than the boys, but they fought just as fiercely on the court side as the boys did in the last round, if not more; quick on their feet and several of the girls diving to receive spikes on their side, falling to the floor and then scrambling back up in a single breath. 

When a sound like a crack of whip echoed through the gymnasium as one of the wing spikers smacked the ball onto the court, he heard Keiji give a small whistle under his breath and turned to see his brows raised high on his forehead, impressed. Koutarou’s eyes were wide as he murmured, “Who was that? What’s the name of that spiker?”

Keiji brought out a pamphlet of the teams and their names, and he looked up briefly to get a look at the girl’s jersey number as she high-fived another girl (setter, white-hair pulled into a tight ponytail). He squinted at the name.

“ _Washio Futaba_.. Apparently she’s a second year.”

Koutarou briefly wondered if there was any relation to the Washio _they_ knew, but Keiji reminded him that Washio had never mentioned having any nieces old enough to be in high school. Nor did the kanji match, but it was still entertaining to wonder if **all** of their former teammates were going to have relatives on this current team.

After that hard spike, Koutarou’s attention was at first stuck on Washio Futaba, but his eyes eventually drew to other noteworthy members of the team.

In terms of power and synergy, they were uneven: the third years didn’t quite jive with their underclassmen and had a different rhythm compared to the younger ones, and Koutarou was disappointed to see the white-haired setter—Shirayuki Kaori—be switched out for the regular third year setter, because she and Futaba seemed to have remarkable cadence with each other. It had a rippling effect on the atmosphere of the team and flubbed their plays a good chunk of the time. On their own, the third-years were solid and comfortable with one another, but they seemed to just not have the same connection with their underclassmen. 

They took the first set by the scrape of their teeth. The second set was much more difficult. The difference in compatibility was seen by Keiji’s keen eyes, too.

“It’s like trying to fix a clock and you’re putting pieces that don’t match together,” he said, fingers idly stroking Koutarou’s forearm. “The third-years run an assembly line, the underclassmen have a different style all together. They’re not meeting in the middle. Both are good, but they don’t entirely work together.”

Koutarou’s eyes were locked on the first year libero that was switched in, Masuda Rie, unblinking as she dove across the court to receive a shot, her shoes barely making a squeak against the floor. The court screamed as it flew up into the air for the current ace to slam down.

“They’re like a flock of their own—“ He leaned forward and felt himself grin when the hit landed, earning Fukurodani a point. “They remind me a lot of Karasuno.”

Keiji hummed in agreement, his expression in a stoic set—but Koutarou knew his husband better than anyone, and he could never miss the bright glint of his green eyes as he watched them— a gleam he used to see when they played together.

“They’re remarkable,” he breathed.

The second set of the game was a clash between the third years, which seemed to make up most of this current team, and the underclassmen: this inconsistency and lack of cohesion between the two led to Fukurodani losing the second set, though they certainly didn’t go down without a fight. The tension within the team was visible even from the stands, with the third years and the second and first years choosing to either glare at each other or ignore them altogether. The first year Libero, Masuda, was benched and Bokuto noticed that she kept bouncing her leg the entire time she was forced there, her body language _screaming_ agitation. Washio was moved to the back, and other second year—Hokuto Takako— was moved to the front. Another Middle Blocker. The court was lit with an electric tension and agitation that could be felt all the way into the stands.

There was so much _energy_ that Koutarou wanted to leap onto the court and play with them.

As he watched the ball fly back and forth across the court in various rallies—Hokuto having to be pulled aside because her fingers were bleeding from blocking the ball so much, Shirayuki diving to attempt to receive the ball and crashing into one of the managers, Washio almost knocking herself into the net— and the desperation he was feeling from the girls was infectious. He’d watched far too many games to count before and after his retirement, and he didn’t know how to effectively describe what it was making him feel since Keiji was the one who was always better with words than Koutarou, but—

This was different. Even as a spectator, he looked at how these girls played, stumbling back onto their feet after falling to the ground, wrapping their fingers in athletic bandages, Masuda sliding elbow pads on because the skin had started to rip from how much she dived, Washio Futaba leaping into the air for a toss the setter sent her way, and he was thrown back to his final year of high school, with Keiji at his side. It gave him that same _feeling_.

He knew, as he watched them play, as the match point on the opposing side was taken and the Fukurodani girls were fighting to keep up, that these girls were capable of reaching that high of a stage.

They just needed someone to guide them _there_.

The sound of a sharp whistle from the ref drew Koutarou out of his intense stare and he hadn’t even realized that he’d been squeezing Keiji’s hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white until Keiji put his free hand on his elbow and murmured, “Koutarou, it’s over.”

The set ended in 25-22, in favor of the opposing team. 2-1. Fukurodani Academy’s Girls Volleyball team was not going to the Spring Interhigh Nationals. 

Koutarou’s hand gradually loosened its tight grip on Keiji’s as the girls lined up (some of the third years were visibly holding back tears already, their shoulders too straightened and stiff, and the first years had already begun crying) and when they bowed, thanking one another for the game, his grip turned firm once more.

“Keiji.”

Keiji’s eyes closed and a smile curled on his lips. He gave the other man’s hand a tight squeeze.

“I know.”

Because of course, Keiji felt it too. That same invigoration that he hadn’t felt since playing with Koutarou on the same team. That need to foster something _great_ out of him, out of the team they’d built together and brought to that stage. 

Koutarou knew he wanted to coach after retirement but he’d been lost in deciding just _where_ he wanted to coach: in hindsight, neither of them should’ve wondered so much. Of course they would come right back to where they had started.

* * *

It didn’t take long for word to spread around school that the volleyball team was getting a new coach that was a recently retired pro. Class 2-5 was already abuzz with the news by the time Shirayuki Kaori walked into the classroom, chin easily sitting on top of her folded arms while she looked out the window. She barely gave more than a hum of acknowledgement when her classmates told her and a grimace-smile when asked if she knew who it was. “Not a clue,” she chirped, earning groans and whines of disappointment.

As class droned on, she flexed her fingers, took her notes, and waited for the last bell to ring. Rie and Nagako joined her for lunch, away from their far too nosy classmates that kept asking if they knew who the pro was.

“It’s not like _we’d_ be the first to know,” Rie huffed, tearing into her melonpan. “He’s probably gonna be coaching the boys, anyway. They get **everything**.”

The bitterness was felt equally amongst them as Nagako bit into her onigiri and Kaori chewed on pickled seaweed. The topic then quickly changed to talking about what they did over break and if they had any plans after their first practice of the new school year. The first years would be trying out for their positions today and there was quite a lot of them this year, no doubt brought to Fukurodani because of its renown as a powerhouse and the rumor of a pro coming to coach for them. Kaori wanted to be optimistic about it, but her gut tightened the more she thought about what this team could look like this year. The third years had retired upon their last game, which was a weight off of their shoulders, only to be replaced by a new one—

Futaba was captain now. Their ace and now their captain. It was a fitting title for her: she was steady, capable and a pillar of strength for the underclassmen when the third years clashed with their style of play.

She’d been so certain that Takako would be the vice captain—but Futaba pointed at her on the last day of the school year, right after the seniors had given the torch over to her upon the first practice after the last game, and said, “I want _you_ to be my vice captain, Kaori-chan.”

Takako and the other new third years posed no argument—in fact, they seemed to _agree_ with Futaba, despite the fact that Kaori was their underclassmen and had only been on the team for a year at the time. None of the new third-years seemed the least bit embittered by Futaba’s decision. Even more mind-boggling. With no other alternative, Kaori hesitantly accepted the new position, hiding her face in the collar of her shirt so she didn’t have to look at Futaba’s smiling face directly. The back of her neck had already turned a bright red.

She’d ignored Rie’s knowing smirk and tossed the ball into the other girl’s stomach. She was satisfied to watch it be wiped off of her face.

Today was going to be their first official meeting for Volleyball Club for the new school year. Kaori was trying not to feel like a complete nervous wreck and failing. 

The rest of the day passed by in a blur and by the time all of the classrooms had been cleaned up, it was time to go to the gym and it felt soothing to change into her training clothes. Slipping the kneepads on and stretching out the kinks in her shoulders and upper back, Kaori sighed a sharp exhale and grabbed her back to meet Futaba outside. 

Futaba, dark brown hair with black highlights pinned back to keep the longer strands out of her face, looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing. Dark olive eyes crinkled slightly as Futaba gave her a half-grin that went all the way to Kaori’s toes.

“Hey, Vice Captain.”

The smile came easier than Kaori expected. “Hey yourself, Captain. Ready to meet the fresh blood?”

Futaba snorted, putting her phone away in her jacket pocket. She shrugged the strap of her workout bag onto her shoulder, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Ready as ever. Hope they’re not too rowdy this year. We’ve got a lot of new members signing up, apparently.”

By comparison to the boy’s team who had many more members than the girls, that was an understatement by the time they got to the gym, where there were at least _five_ new members vying for a spot on the team. Two of them, Taniguchi (middle blocker) and Nagai (wing spiker and was very proud, almost haughty, to say so) were already giving each other snippy comments and dirty side looks by the time Kaori and Futaba got there. Takako had to step in and separate the two of them at a point and Shiina threatened to spike a ball at Nagai’s stomach if she didn’t pipe down and listen to their captain. 

Their coach from the year before wasn’t there. That wasn’t surprising: he’d only been a temporary coach for the year, filling in when needed because his day job was at another middle school where he coached volleyball almost full-time. Good advice and help on occasion, but really only available some days of the week and weekends. Most of the past year or two’s practices were run by the third years and self-governed by the team. The girls’ team hadn’t had a proper long-term coach in almost five years. 

Futaba could already feel a headache coming on and without one of the teaching supervisors to help chaperone these hooligans, it was up to her to round them up. It was hard to not feel bitter about having to find another new coach to last them through the year.

It figured as much that the boys would be getting a recently retired _pro_ as a coach. The only odd thing about it was that last Kaori and Futaba heard, Coach Yamiji was still working with the boys and no one had said anything about his retirement. Coach Yamiji had been doing excellent work with them, Futaba didn’t see why he had to retire to make way for a newer, younger coach: for his age, he was quite spry and active. It would’ve been nice to have had him coach them, too, before he retired. He helped when he could, but his hands were full with the rowdy boys as it was. He couldn’t give the time necessary to coach the girls, too, in addition to the boys.

As Futaba forced herself into the captain shoes and asked all of the five new members to line up so they could practice receiving and show where their skills laid, she grimly wondered if it would just be another repeat of last year.

They didn’t even have a _manager_.

Well, whatever. If they had to do everything on their own **_again_** … so be it.

“Konoha, Nagai,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. “On my side of the court with Takako-chan and Rie-chan—if you wanna be the ace so badly _as you just declared_ ,” her tone turned dry as she glanced at Nagai, who had the grace to at least look shamefaced for a second before she crossed her arms, chin turned up in determination.

Taniguchi faintly snorted, a smirk on her face from the other side of the net, and Konoha rolled her eyes. Futaba felt a vessel in her eye twitch along with a vein in her neck: barely an hour into their first practice of the year and they were already starting to get rowdy. Was this what her previous captains went through, too?

Fighting back the urge to exhale loudly, Futaba bounced the ball up and down. Kaori glanced at her from the other side of the net and gave her a little smile: all of the muscles in Futaba’s body relaxed at the sight.

“Then show me just how good your spike is. Prove to me that you can make it as part of the team.”

Nagai Tamao’s eyes glimmered with pure glee and she seemed to visibly vibrate with excitement: if nothing else, her determination to prove herself was admirable and could be useful. The girls scattered into their positions, Rie rolling on the balls of her feet as she waited, arms spread and eyes alert; she’d played enough with Yoko and Shiina to know how _mean_ their spikes were. It was Futaba’s serve and Kaori’s eyes glowed gold from her side of the net, a daring grin sent her way. 

Futaba huffed to herself, fighting a smile: Kaori always got fired up when they played against each other in practice. She seemed so meek off the court, but anyone who played with her knew better.

Soft pop music played in the background when Futaba tossed the ball into the air and leapt up a foot or two to send her serve, pressing all of the power into the heel of her palm with a sharp crack to the other side of the net.

The difference in atmosphere was stark compared to the last two years already, Futaba could tell: the first year who played Libero in middle school, Horiuchi Ann, had good reflexes and dove to receive Futaba’s serve, and the ball was flying all across the other side of the net. Giving a perfect toss as usual, Kaori sent the ball to Yoko and it was flying to their side of the net. 

Konoha Haruna’s eyes darted from the gym doors, looking almost _expectant_ , to the ball as it came floating over, palms splayed out.

“ _Me! Give it to_ ** _me_** _—!_ ”

Haruna’s face scrunched a little in annoyance at Tamao’s demand, mouth pulling into a scowl. Instead of tossing to the insistent Tamao, who was too far for her to feel comfortable tossing to just yet, Haruna tossed to the taller, closer Futaba. Tamao audibly growled and Futaba tch’d when Mimori leapt up to block her spike, smirking as it flew back over the net.

The rally continued for several more tosses and receives (Futaba and Kaori both taking mental notes, already impressed with the new members and how the atmosphere between the team seemed less tense this year, a nice feeling), until Rie passed the ball back to Haruna. Tamao sped across the court and leapt up, grinning like a predator— “ _Mine_!” as Haruna tossed the ball into the air.

The smack of the ball against her palm was so loud, making Futaba’s eyebrows raise at the power behind it and her eyes fixed on the high trajectory of the ball flying over the net and to the other side of the court, that she didn’t hear the groan of the gym doors opening.

_“Hey hey he—!”_

**_SMACK_ ** _._

A dozen pair of wide, horrified eyes turned to see the ball land right into the face of a tall man with a broad physique and wild black and grey hair, knocking him flat to the floor. The ball fell softly, cheerfully, to the ground as a dozen teenage girls stared in slack-jawed horror. The man laid still on the ground.

Mimori’s mouth opened and closed, finally at a loss for words.

“Oh my god,” Rie breathed. “I think you just killed a man, Tamago-chan.”

“N-No I didn’t! And my name is _Tamao_ , not **_Tamago_** —“

“I can’t tell if he’s breathing,” added Takako, helpfully, monotone as ever. “I think he’s dead—“

“ _I_ ** _didn’t_** _kill him!_ ”

“Um,” Ann muttered, eyes wide and nervous. She pointed at the still man, who was still laying flat on the gym floor “Who is that—he looks kinda familiar—“

“ _Oh my god oh my god oh my god_ —“ Kaori muttered, knees bent and head in her hands.

“OKAY, OKAY—“ said Futaba loudly, “E-Everyone just— _chill out_ for five minutes it’s gonna be _fine_ he’s **_fine_** —“

Nagako shrieked when the man, after laying still as a corpse for a solid minute while a dozen teenage girls were devolving into a panic over one of their newest members possibly killing a man with a spike, suddenly shot up to his feet, hopping to a stand. Golden eyes glimmered with mirth as the man put his hands on his hips, his broad-shouldered form and strong stance more evident than ever.

“Who hit that, because you’ve got one helluva strong arm!”

After a pause, all of the girls turned to look at Tamao, who was feeling very put on the spot and targeted. Gulping, she quietly raised her hand.

The man beamed. Despite the bright red swelling on the middle of his face from where the ball hit him, he seemed rather cheerful and not all mad.

“ _Do it again!_ Just not at my face this time, okay!”

Futaba blinked rapidly and narrowed her eyes, confused. She and Kaori shared a bewildered glance, her setter shrugging her shoulders helplessly.

“Um,” she started, taking a step forward. “I’m— so, _so_ sorry about that, do you need, uh, a bandage or something—“

“Hi, Boji-san,” Haruna waved, placid expression finally showing a smile. She somehow seemed the least surprised about everything.

The man’s expression positively lit up.

“ _HARUNAAAAA-CHAAAAN!_ ”

Futaba muttered what the fuck under her breath as the man suddenly rushed forward and picked up their newest setter by her waist and lifted her above his shoulders like Haruna weighed nothing. The non-expressive freshman smiled and giggled as the man spun her around.

“You’ve gotten so big! You were barely to my waist the last time I saw you!”

Haruna huffed as the the man lowered her down to the floor, as if all of this were somehow normal. “Boji-san, I saw you _two months ago_ with Akiji-chan for dinner, I’m not **_twelve_**.”

Barking a laugh, he ruffled her hair, earning a squawk and Haruna batting his hands away from her dirty blonde hair. “You’re so much littler than me, sometimes it’s hard to remember!”

Futaba could feel a raging headache coming on and the girls were getting restless, now less worried about the man whose face was still red from where the ball had smacked into him, now more curious. The younger members held back and the older ones seemed unsure what to do, but their eyes turned to Futaba. Shiina nudged her with her elbow into her side, and Futaba sucked in a breath.

“Excuse me,” she said, hands on her hips and voice raised, more confident.

“Hmm?” The man turned around, and Futaba was taken aback by the sheer intensity of his golden eyes and his sheer size: he towered over them and the styling of his hair along with the bright color of his eyes reminded Futaba of a horned owl, eerily so. He was smiling, but the confidence and certainty he exuded was beyond intimidating.

If she weren’t so on the spot with the man’s stare on her, Futaba might recognized him from the pictures if past athletes that had gone pro, the noteworthy former students that brought their alma mater pride. She might’ve remembered seeing a similar, younger, less weathered and experienced face on the walls that led to the sports arenas and the gym, where a case full of trophies and medals sat.

Clearing her throat, Futaba collected herself, putting on her captain shoes that she didn’t feel comfortable in just yet.

“I apologize for one of my teammates hitting you—“ Futaba ignored the twitch from Tamao, visible in her periphery vision and continued. “But we were in the middle of practice and we didn’t know anyone else was coming, so.. who are you?”

Briefly, she wondered if he was a parent (but he looked far too young), or possibly the older brother of someone on the boys team—

The man threw his head back in a bark of laughter and beamed so brightly it was as if staring at the sun, stunning but almost painful to look at. He was brimming with such confidence that all of their eyes were on him, certain and sure.

“Sorry sorry for scaring you kids! Keiji always says I get a bit too ahead of myself sometimes—“

_Keiji???_

“—But I’m Bokuto Koutarou, former Wing Spiker and Ace of the MSBY Jackals—“

Sharp intakes of breath were heard all around the gym, except for Konoha Haruna, who had a grin on her face that was almost smug and triumphant, as if she knew the entire time—

Bokuto Koutarou gave a toothy grin and jabbed a thumb at his chest.

“And your new coach! Nice to meetcha!”

* * *

Hours later, Keiji would wipe his husband’s still reddened face, scold him for barging in on the girls’ practice without properly introducing himself first, make a quick stir fry dinner with miso glazed beef and onigiri gifted from Osamu on the side, while humming and listening attentively as Koutarou rambled on about the girls—Konoha’s niece, who Keiji had always adored and wanted to be a setter since watching reels of their old team, the new captain with sharp olive eyes named Futaba, the shy looking Kaori with snow white hair and a calulating presence on the court, and all of the first years who bumbled around him in awe, overwhelmed at having a real pro as their coach— with hums and noises showing he was paying attention. He couldn’t fight back a smile as he patted down Koutarou’s damp hair dry after a bath together. His husband’s back was warm against his bare legs, the other man shirtless and wearing a soft pair of gray sweatpants. Keiji himself was wearing one of Koutarou’s several old jerseys, the hems going well past the length of his shorts.

Once Keiji was done drying him off, Koutarou let his head fall back with a content sigh and smiled up at his husband. Keiji played with his damp hair and leaned into the large, roughened palm that cupped the side of his face.

“Come to our next practice, Keiji.”

“Mmm,” said Keiji, spreading his legs so that Koutarou could easily wedge himself between them. He huffed a laugh through his nose when the other man promptly threw his bare legs over his shoulders, looking quite pleased with himself. “I won’t be able to do much; I’ll be tired from getting off work and I haven’t played in years. They won’t learn much from me. Perhaps Atsumu-san or Tobio would be better choices instead.”

Koutarou grunted and turned around, sitting on his knees and keeping Keiji’s legs over his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around his husband’s waist. Drawing him closer, Koutarou pressed his chin against Keiji’s stomach and pouted, insistent. 

“Don’t say that, Keijiiii. Tsum-Tsum was great, but you’re still the best setter I’ve ever had! They could learn so much from you!”

The roll of Keiji’s eyes was fond. The corner of his mouth was already curving upward into a soft smile. “You can’t say that, you’re biased.”

“It’s true, though! Please? _Pleeeeease_ , babe?”

His eyes went so wide and puppy-like it was almost hard to believe that this man was in his mid-thirties: Keiji loved him so much for it. 

Chuckling, Keiji brushed back a damp lock of hair out of Koutarou’s face and feigned a weary sigh. “Okay. I’ll stop by after work on Friday. Maybe I’ll even bring snacks for you all. Yakiniku even.”

Koutarou whooped and Keiji yelped when his husband suddenly swooped him up and off of the couch, arms firm around his waist as he spun them around. Hooking his legs around Koutarou’s waist, Keiji’s not well disguised amusement and affection obvious in his _Kou! Don’t do that so suddenly! And don’t you dare drop me!_ as he hung on tight. 

“You’re gonna love ‘em, Keiji,” Koutarou breathed, pressing Keiji tight to him even as he lowered his husband back down. “They’re great, so _great_.”

He’d met them all of once, and he already knew: too soon to say, others would retort, but that was just the sort of person Bokuto Koutarou was. When he saw the potential for good and greatness in someone, Koutarou bum-rushed ahead at top speed without any hesitation: they both saw it in that gym months ago.

Keiji smiled.

“I know,” he said, pressing a kiss to his husband's jaw. “You’re the one teaching them, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> none of these girls are straight, btw. absolutely none of them. akaashi and iwaizumi are also half-siblings bc i saw a fanart of the concept and i've never been the same ever since.
> 
> what a couple of the girls look like: [futaba](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/708309994717839420/708310224083353640/download20200505092747.png), [kaori](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/708309994717839420/708310221306724372/download20200504150138.png), [rie](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/557039258750418954/708306055452426270/download20200505091450.png), [tamao](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/708309994717839420/708310131690962994/257476_vIWuWv2p.png), [haruna](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/708309994717839420/708318855331709028/download20200505100605.png) (she's konoha's niece!) i will add more later bc rn i am exhausted. if you can guess what owls they're based on i love u.
> 
> there will be a lil series to accompany this and the aobajohsai girls team will be next... whenever i can get to it. grad school is hard man and so is being alive. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
